Something flickers in his expression—that same raw vulnerability I glimpsed earlier.
“Then you’ll have me,” he says quietly. “All of me. No glamours. No pretense.”
He means it literally, I realize, as the air around him seems to shimmer. The illusion that’s been hiding his true form dissolves like morning mist, revealing what lies beneath.
Small black horns curve from his temples, elegant spirals that gleam faintly in the golden light. His eyes shift fully to crimson, no longer flickering but burning steadily like twin flames. When he speaks, I catch a glimpse of sharper teeth, and something dark and sinuous moves behind him—a tail, I realize with distant fascination. He has a tail.
“This is me.” His voice carries a tremor I’ve never heard before. “This is what I really am.”
I reach up and trace one horn with curious fingers.
“Finally,” I say. “No more secrets.”
He shatters.
There’s nothing gentle about the first time. It’s all urgency and desperation and years of loneliness colliding with unexpected connection. Then he’s between my legs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pauses, searching my face.
“Isadora.”
“Yes.”
He pushes in slowly, so slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size. There’s a moment of discomfort, a sharp sting, and then he’s fully seated inside me and it’s?—
“Perfect,” I breathe.
His head drops to my shoulder, and I feel the tension in his entire body, the way he’s holding back.
“Move,” I tell him. “Please move.”
He does, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in, setting a rhythm that builds gradually, each stroke deeper than the last. He moves inside me like he’s trying to memorize the feeling, like he’s afraid this will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling, and every thrust sends waves of pleasure crashing through me.
“More,” I gasp. “Please.”
“Anything.” His hips snap forward harder. “Anything you want.”
Everything,I think.I want everything.
His tail wraps around my thigh, adding another point of contact that feels strangely intimate. His hands are everywhere, stroking and gripping and worshipping, and when his mouth finds mine again, the kiss tastes like desperation and devotion in equal measure.
I’ve never felt so consumed. So wanted.
The orgasm builds slowly, then crashes over me all at once. I cry out against his lips, my nails digging into his shoulders, and feel him shudder in response.
“Again,” he growls. “I want to feel you again.”
Before I can respond, he shifts angles, and the new position sends sparks shooting up my spine. His thumb finds my clit, circling with the perfect pressure, and impossibly, I feel myself climbing again.
“That’s it.” His voice is rough velvet in my ear. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The second climax is even more intense than the first. I’m distantly aware of making sounds I’ve never made before—wordless cries and broken moans that would embarrass me if I could think clearly enough to care. He drinks them in like wine, his own control finally fracturing as he finds his release.
For a long moment afterward, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, tangled and sweaty and utterly spent.
“That was...” I trail off, unable to find adequate words.
“Indeed.” He sounds as wrecked as I feel. “Give me five minutes. I want to do it again.”
“Five minutes? That’s ambitious.”
